


hurt me

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Wanda Maximoff, Praise Kink, Smut, Spanking, They love each other, Uhm, cause shes the best girlfriend ever, i need jesus, its soft, natasha had a ruff time and now wandas gonna help, sigh, they're soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “That’s why you should leave me alone right now.”Wanda swallows thickly. “But, I thought… I thought that we did things together now.”A flash of guilt briefly crosses Natasha’s pretty features, though her unobtrusive gaze doesn’t waver from Wanda's. “We do.”“Okay,” Wanda acquiesces, something like inspiration building in her tone—she thinks that maybe they’re getting somewhere,finally. “So, how can I help?”Natasha watches her carefully for a long, protracted moment. “I would never ask that of you.”“I know. That is why I am offering.”Or: After a mission, Natasha's having a rough time—Wanda wants to help.





	hurt me

**Author's Note:**

> *sighs heavily* and to think, my mormon parents tried so hard to make me a christian....

Natasha and the others returned back from the mission roughly four hours ago, but Wanda still has yet to see her—it’s… unusual, for them. Unsettling. 

Maybe in the beginning, Natasha might keep her distance; maybe in the beginning, Natasha would retreat deep inside herself to sort out the shrieking demons within after an op that went horrifically south… but, not now. Not anymore. Not after everything. 

It sets Wanda’s nerves on edge, begets worrisome anxiety curdling low in her gut—she waits for another hour locked away in her quarters, waiting for Natasha to show like she always had. 

She never does. 

Wanda takes one last glance at the digital clock on her nightstand, the rectangular face reading 7:04pm, before she stands, now dressed in her pajamas (an over-sized graphic Def Leppard tee and a pair of short black tight-fitting spandex), to open her door and pad out on bare feet into the hall, heart beating rapidly in her chest with a bone-deep desperation to find Natasha, to be with her. 

She checks the training room, first; she only finds a sweat-drenched Steve viciously pummeling another matte-black boxing bag hung on sturdy chains from the ceiling (he’d split open the last three), but he gives her a wave and a grin as she passes by, so she figures he’s alright. 

She passes the kitchen and communal living area for a moment, where Clint is indulging in a triple-decker ham sandwich that causes his cheeks to bulge obscenely on every bite—he gives her a nod, too, and some mangled resemblance of a smile (which doesn’t quite work as he chews the handfuls of food stuffed in his mouth) that she returns without hesitation. 

She doesn’t bother checking in the labs—she knows very well that she’ll only find Tony down there tinkering with something or another, likely accompanied by Bruce, as well. 

She sighs quietly to herself before padding back into the elevator and taking it up to the 8th floor—one above Wanda’s, where Natasha’s living quarters are… or, where they’re supposed to be, anyhow. 

Natasha is very rarely found there, preferring instead to sleep over at Wanda’s—and, the rest of the time, she’s typically on an international mission overseas or something of the like. 

Wanda knows she’ll spend a night up in her own quarters here and there, but it’s a fairly uncommon occurrence—still, Wanda doesn’t quite know where else she’s meant to look if not there. 

She feels strange, rapping lightly on Natasha’s door (third one to the right, straight out of the elevator) in the dimly lit hallway—though, that troubling sensation has nothing on the bewilderment she feels when a second later, the door swings swiftly open to reveal a decidedly unhappy-looking Natasha on the other side, faint streaks of soot adorning her jaw, civilian clothes (tight-fitting blue jeans and a horizontally-striped grey-and-black zip-up hoodie) ripped in various places and littered with singe marks, her mussed hair relatively flat and shiny (so unlike her gorgeous natural waves). 

For a long moment, Wanda doesn’t know what to do with herself—she can smell the pungent odor of smoke and gunpowder rolling off of the redhead in waves, but she can smell something else beneath it, too; something faint, delicate, comforting… something that’s entirely _Natasha_. 

It’s… off-putting (of course), in a way, but comforting, too. Appealing.

She wants to squirm under the steel of Natasha’s catlike gaze, wants to ask her _“Why?”_ or _“What happened?”_ , wants to wrap her arms around her soot-stained neck and hug her like nothing else matters—still, something keeps her there, unmoving and stiff, lips parted slightly in shock.

Natasha, for her part, doesn’t do a thing to help Wanda’s current predicament: expression blank, jaw tight, something almost _dangerous_ flashing in jade-green irises—something that sends a chilling shiver down Wanda’s spine, that screams at her to run away even when she _knows_ Natasha’s not going to hurt her, knows that the unwavering faith she has in Natasha is most certainly not misplaced. 

“N-Natasha?” she manages to stutter out after a long silence, her voice quiet and weak as it echoes down the deserted hallway. 

Natasha merely tilts her head incrementally, a sort of conflict seeming to rise within her as she rakes her gaze up and down Wanda’s body—suddenly, Wanda feels rather self-conscious, standing there in nothing but tiny spandex and a large T-shirt without a bra, feels inexplicably _exposed_ under Natasha’s predatory gaze… what’s worse, she can’t decide whether to feel terrified or aroused by it all. 

(She thinks she might just be feeling a little bit of both—or, a lot, if she’s being honest.)

A second passes, and abruptly, Natasha seems to remember herself—posture straightening almost imperceptibly, the perilous glint in her eyes fading in favor of well-suppressed suspicion, gaze narrowing. 

“Wanda,” Natasha husks out carefully, like she’s concentrating all her remaining effort into speaking. “You should go.”

Wanda feels ice-cold dread seep into her veins, worry mounting in her chest; without hesitation, she shuffles forward until they’re mere inches away from one another, undeterred by Natasha’s sharp intake of breath at their close and sudden proximity. 

“Natasha, what is wrong?” she asks softly, _pleadingly_ , not bothering to hide the unmitigated desperation in her words. “Please, tell me.”

Natasha’s jaw clenches, her expression pinched. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

Instantly, Wanda shakes her head, stretching out pale fingers (currently absent of any of her silver rings) to clasp Natasha’s hand tightly in hers, inwardly sighing in relief when Natasha allows it. 

“Something is wrong. I want to _help_.”

An unintelligible sound escapes Natasha’s throat at that, quiet and strangled—it sets Wanda immediately on edge. 

“Not right now, okay? Not when I’m like this.”

Wanda exhales slowly, gaze boring into Natasha's. “Like what?”

Natasha is silent for a long moment, and it’s as if Wanda can literally _see_ the well-oiled cogs in her intelligent brain turning, the permutations being meticulously calculated in real time—it’s breathtaking, truly, and something she rarely ever gets to see, even with how closely they’ve intertwined themselves throughout the past couple of months.

Eventually, Natasha lets out a muted sigh, slipping her hand from Wanda’s (she immediately misses the warmth of Natasha’s touch) and stepping to the side, brow slightly furrowed in a contemplative expression. 

“Come in,” she says, quiet yet firm, an invitation and a command all in one. 

Wanda does. 

✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳

Natasha makes her tea—chamomile, two sugars, a splash of milk; just how she likes it. 

She fixes one for herself, as well—chamomile, no sugar, no milk; Natasha never liked sweet things in hot drinks—not hot cocoa, not cider, not any kind of coffee that wasn’t black. 

(Just another one of the many quirks Wanda has come to adore about her.)

They sit, then, at the rectangular table near the kitchen space—Natasha at the head, Wanda just adjacent to her. 

It’s dark inside Natasha’s quarters, but there’s a lamp nearby that casts a soft yellowy-amber light upon the two of them—on the whole, Wanda finds it rather soothing. 

So, Wanda sits, resisting the urge to tuck her knees against her chest (her mother had always said that was bad manners at the dining table—or any table, really), hands cupped loosely around the steaming mug before her, waiting for her tea to cool.

“Natasha…” Wanda trails off, suddenly feeling shy with Natasha’s intent gaze upon her. “I-I am confused.”

Natasha just nods, leaning slightly forward in her seat, elbows resting on the edge of the polished wooden table. 

“Are you scared?” she asks. 

Unsure as to exactly what compels her, Wanda nods.

Something strange flickers through Natasha’s eyes then—like a spark of satisfaction, of _excitement_ , followed quickly by sadness and the barest hint of anger. 

“That’s why you should leave me alone right now.”

Wanda swallows thickly. “But, I thought… I thought that we did things together now.”

A flash of guilt briefly crosses Natasha’s pretty features, though her unobtrusive gaze doesn’t waver from Wanda's. “We do.”

“Okay,” Wanda acquiesces, something like inspiration building in her tone—she thinks that maybe they’re getting somewhere, _finally_. “So, how can I help?”

Natasha watches her carefully for a long, protracted moment. “I would never ask that of you.”

“I know. That is why I am offering.”

Natasha’s nostrils flare, the woman letting out a frustrated yet gradual exhale that chills Wanda to the bone, even if she forces herself not to show it. 

“I need… " Natasha pauses, eyelids shutting for a long second before reflexively fluttering back open. “I need to hurt someone.”

Wanda frowns, confused. “Do you wish to spar?” No response. "We both know I am a terrible fighter, but Steve is down boxing right now, and y—" 

“That’s not what I mean, Wanda,” Natasha murmurs softly, effectively cutting her off; instantly, Wanda’s mouth snaps closed. 

“Then… what?”

“I need to hurt… someone,” Natasha pronounces cautiously. "Not just anyone—someone I _lo_ —someone I care for.” Natasha bites her lip hard then, lips pursed. “And _that’s_ why it’s better if you leave."

Wanda tries to ignore the way her heart leaps at Natasha’s slip. 

(She’d been about to say ‘love,’ and they both knew it. 

But, that was for later—right now, they had more pressing matters to attend to; namely, what it was that Natasha needed.)

What she _can’t_ ignore, however, is the sudden heat that floods her belly at the implication behind Natasha’s words, at what she’s asking—or, trying _not_ to ask, as it were. 

Gathering all of her courage about her (which, admittedly, isn’t much), she meets Natasha’s eyes with a determined look, refusing to hesitate for even a moment as she asks, “And what if I wanted you to hurt me?”

The effect is immediate: Natasha inhales sharply, posture stiffening, green eyes darkening with something that sends a delicious jolt of electricity straight to the delicate flesh between Wanda's thighs. 

Wanda watches with tentative interest as Natasha’s internal struggle plays out across her regal features, knowing it must take a truly remarkable amount of self-restraint to be abstaining as Natasha so valiantly is at the current moment. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Natasha warns eventually, low and husky, a slight breathiness in her tone that sets Wanda’s every nerve ending alight with anticipation, with _arousal_. “You need to _lea_ —"

“I am yours, Natasha,” Wanda tells her, unable to keep the thrill from rising in her chest as a low growl escapes Natasha in response. “I want this,” she insists tenderly, leaning forward across the tabletop, lukewarm tea forgotten. “I _want_ you to hurt me.”

“You’re going to need a safe word.”

✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳

They stand roughly three feet apart in the dimly-lit bedroom, face-to-face, and Wanda thinks that she doesn’t recognize Natasha she knows. Not anymore. 

She’s cleaned up, somewhat—washed the dirt from her slim hands, the soot from her regal cheekbones, gathered her pin-straight locks of fiery-red hair into a high ponytail that Wanda yearns to run her fingers through.

She’s divested herself of the charred hoodie, too, switching it instead for a simple white V-neck tee, cotton, that hugs each and every curve of her form in such a way that Wanda can practically feel the moisture leaving her mouth, the heat settling low in her belly, her arousal increasing tenfold. 

Her pale thighs are gloriously bare, marred here and there with minor cuts and grazes, her milky skin seeming to glow in the faint luminescence of the moonlight—she wears only a pair of skimpy black panties on her lower half, trimmed with lace.

All in all, she looks very much like she would on every other night they fall asleep together in Wanda’s quarters entangled completely in each other’s warmth, whispering tender confessions and terrible secrets to the other in the all-encompassing blanket of darkness—and yet, that only serves to make the entire ensemble all the more unsettling. 

It’s unsettling because, as innately as Wanda recognizes the familiarity of Natasha’s dress, she doesn’t recognize the coldness in lurid green irises, the bitter indifference that emanates off her being, the way she rakes her predatory gaze up and down Wanda’s still-clothed figure like she hasn’t let Wanda into her heart, like she doesn’t perceive the boundless profusion of shared intimacy that makes them inherently _more_ than this. 

“Are you sure?” Natasha questions then, tone rough and almost uncertain, and Wanda sees a fleeting fragment of the Natasha she knows, of the Natasha that loves her. 

She swallows thickly, willing herself not to waver in the face of ambiguity. “Yes.”

Natasha tilts her head at that, a chilling air of disinterest overtaking her features. “Take off your clothes.”

Wanda feels a slight flush tinging her cheeks even whilst she moves hastily to obey, quickly ridding herself of the over-sized Def Leppard tee before bending slightly to deftly slide the black spandex down her legs, stepping delicately out of them once they’ve pooled at her bare feet. 

She meets Natasha’s gaze again and shivers under her callous inspection, feeling the absurd desire to cover her nude form from sight as if that will make even the smallest amount of difference—still, her long hair tickles the curve of her back, her exposed nipples harden in the cool air, and she fights the urge to squeeze her thighs together whilst Natasha watches in some desperate attempt to conceal the wetness pooling there. 

Natasha, for her part, seems oblivious to Wanda’s inner turmoil as she advances, step by step until they’re mere inches apart, her wandering gaze finally coming back up to burn straight through Wanda’s. 

“You are beautiful,” she whispers lowly, her words impossibly soft even if her hardened exterior doesn’t falter, and Wanda shivers. 

“T-Thank you, Natasha.”

Natasha’s lips twitch, a warning glint in her eye. “You will call me Natalia until I say we’ve finished, да?”

Wanda nods, eyes wide. “Да, Natas—… Natalia.”

Natasha’s features relax slightly—if Wanda has to guess, she thinks she looks… _pleased_ , almost. Proud.

“What is your safe word, милая?” With every word, Natasha allows traces of her native Russian accent to show—it’s beautiful, Wanda thinks.

“Elena,” Wanda answers quietly without hesitation, instinctively clenching her hands into fists at her sides as a dizzying wave of anger crests forcefully in her chest—it’s her mother’s name… _was_ her mother’s name. Before the shells hit, before the building collapsed, before 10-year-old Wanda and Pietro knew just how cruel the world outside their love could be. 

Natasha merely nods—when she exhales, the warmth of her breath tickles Wanda’s lips. 

“Good,” she praises, and Wanda shivers as her hands ghost a gradual trail down Wanda’s forearms, stopping at her hands curled tightly into fists. “Let go,” she orders, soft but unyielding, a sharpness to her tone that both excites and terrifies Wanda in equal parts. 

Wanda does as she asks, allowing her trembling hands to relax at her sides, taking comfort in the careful way Natasha’s touch grazes down over her knuckles, along her fingers. 

“Good,” Natasha breathes out, green eyes seeming to bore straight through Wanda's. “Check in, дорогая."

Wanda gulps. “Green, Natalia.”

Natasha hums at that but doesn’t respond, instead lowers her gaze as she begins to deftly move her fingers up the flush pale skin of Wanda’s arms, lingering at her shoulders for a moment before tracing lightly along her delicate collarbones, verdant irises tracking every ministration with assiduously measured interest. 

Wanda doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to flinch as Natasha’s touch traces lower, along her sternum and down between her breasts, goosebumps rising in their wake. Instead, she focuses on her breathing—in, out, in, out—even when Natasha’s fingers linger at the bottoms of her ribcage, when the redhead splays her hands across the expanse of alabaster flesh beneath Wanda’s breasts, forcing another involuntary shudder to span through Wanda’s being. 

Then, the warmth of Natasha’s palms are gone and all that’s left is the barest fervor of her fingertips, skating along the achingly sensitive skin of Wanda’s breasts, lazily circling the hardened peak of rosebud nipples until Wanda thinks she might go insane with _wanting_. 

Her lower back begins to ache from standing still for so long, her shoulders trembling slightly under the strain of forcibly remaining so unwaveringly stagnant—then, Natasha’s touch reaches her nipples, and all preceding thoughts are promptly forgotten as she has to bite her lower lip to keep a desperate pleasured mewl from escaping her. 

A euphoric haze enters her mind whilst Natasha’s thumbs and forefingers dance across the most sensitive area of her breasts, only increasing even whilst they begin to close around each stiffened bud with a telling sort of purpose—she bites her lip even harder when Natasha begins to pinch them, grasping them tightly, so tightly Wanda fears for a moment that she might break skin… 

But, she trusts Natasha (she always has), and so, she meets Natasha’s frosty gaze with her own and forces herself to lean further into the pain, into the _hurt_ , her breaths quickening, her body trembling with the formidable weight of self-imposed pressure to remain utterly still, an uncomfortable soreness beginning to rise within her amidst the arousal swirling in her gut that only worsens with every twist of Natasha’s clever fingers, every tightening of her iron-clad grip around Wanda’s nipples. 

She feels hot tears burning in her eyes as Natasha’s fingers twist even further, as she forces herself to surrender willingly to her cruel ministrations, as she tastes coppery blood on her tongue where she’s broken the skin of her lower lip in her vigorous struggle to remain silent. 

Her vision blurs, the sight of Natasha’s aloof features grows hazy, and she’s sure she’s not going to last another second without releasing a strangled whimper for the all-powerful agony wracking her body—but then, as soon as it’s come, it’s gone: Natasha’s powerful fingers release her hardened peaks, a tear traces its way down Wanda’s cheek, and Natasha’s hand lifts to catch it, grazing so gently against her face to clean the evidence of her disquiet from sight. 

Wanda exhales slowly as Natasha does this, feeling a painful but not unpleasant soreness in her throbbing nipples, her head spinning from the juxtaposition of harshness and kindness she’s been shown in the past moments. 

“Did that hurt, малышка?” Natasha asks in an almost clinical tone that bears a hint of mocking sympathy, successfully breaking the charged stillness that had settled upon the room. 

Wanda nods meekly, blinking away the remainder of wetness in her eyes, bloodied lower lip trembling as she releases it from the resolute purchase of her teeth. “Y-Yes, Natalia.”

Natasha’s lips quirk, bottomless evergreen eyes flashing enigmatically. 

“Good,” she asserts faintly, and Wanda resists the urge to shrink under her intimidating gaze. 

A moment later, she’s bending forward to envelop Wanda’s right nipple in the warm wetness of her mouth without a single warning—Wanda doesn’t even try to muffle the throaty moan that escapes her then, the sensation of such gentle dampness surrounding the raw and exceedingly sensitive peak more than enough to render her entirely powerless under the pleasurable onslaught.

Natasha doesn’t relent even as a myriad of faint-hearted noises escape Wanda’s slightly parted lips—if anything, her efforts double: warm wet tongue licking slow, broad strokes around Wanda’s tender nub; her right hand rising to tweak playfully at Wanda’s neglected left breast, tongue working to soothe the irritation even as her fingers labor to stoke its flame. 

A high-pitched whimper escapes Wanda when Natasha switches her attentions to the left, enclosing her considerably sore nipple in damp heat and suckling attentively until she earns another compulsory cry from Wanda, the residual wetness upon her right peak tingling pleasurably as it dries in the absence of Natasha’s mouth. 

Natasha, like in all things, takes her time with this, with her apparent newfound mission to drive Wanda steadily to the cliff’s edge of sheer insanity—ripping moans and yelps and _cries_ from Wanda as she stands helpless and trembling beneath the intoxicating feel of Natasha’s full lips closed firmly around her nipple, her warm slippery tongue lavishing that hypersensitive peak with the entirety of her knee-weakening deliberations. 

Wanda can’t stop a loud whine from leaving her when Natasha pulls back, when both her spit-damp nipples _ache_ with the remembrance of Natasha’s harrowing torment followed closely by such unadulterated bliss—Natasha doesn’t acknowledge her outburst, doesn’t flinch as she steps back to admire her handiwork: Wanda, entirely bared unto her, pale lithe body wracked with the occasional shudder, rosebud-pink nipples wet and shiny, an exquisite fuchsia flush creeping further and further up her naked chest with every passing second.

“Check in,” Natasha demands even as her gaze remains fixed upon Wanda’s exposed breasts, regal features wrought with apathetic interest. 

“G-Green, Natalia,” Wanda squeaks out, her words barely audible, body flush with arousal—she thinks that if this goes on for much longer, her wetness will surely begin to drip down her inner thighs; she can’t decide if the thought is inexpressibly enticing or merely downright frustrating. 

(Probably a fair amount of both, to tell the truth.)

Natasha quirks a brow. “On the bed. Face-up. Head on the pillow.”

Ducking her head as the heated blush worsens upon her cheeks, Wanda gives a shy nod. 

“Yes, Natalia,” she murmurs whilst she moves to obey, feeling the weight of Natasha’s stare upon her with every movement—after a second or two, she’s there: lying compliantly in the middle of the sheets, arms settling limply at her sides, head resting upon the single pillow, long brown hair sprawled beneath her. 

She forces herself to lie still even as Natasha’s silent footfalls approach her, as her body yearns to shudder in anticipation for what’s to come—she will take what she’s given; nothing more, nothing less.

“Spread your legs,” Natasha tells her next, and she does, thighs trembling as her glistening wetness is exposed in the dim lighting of the room (overlaid sparingly with silvery moonlight of the night), heated folds flush with arousal and _desire_. 

“Beautiful,” Natasha hums more to herself than to Wanda, and Wanda can feel her cheeks growing hotter under the extolment.

She doesn’t quite see what happens next—she scarcely _blinks_ for the most infinitesimal of seconds, and then her lids are fluttering open to reveal a smirking Natasha hovering above her, straddling Wanda’s pliant naked body like a defenseless prey; for what feels to be the millionth time, Wanda takes a moment to think that her lover's moniker ‘Black Widow’ is exceptionally well-deserved, to say the least, for she’s never met another so effortlessly efficient and unequivocally _capable_ in her life. (She thinks she probably never will.)

Natasha doesn’t give her a second to recover before she’s burying her face into the elegant curve of Wanda’s neck, leaving gentle kisses from beneath her jawline down to the quivering skin atop her pulse point—Wanda can barely grasp each sensation, barely has a single hint of cautionary premonition before Natasha’s teeth enclose her pastel skin in a stinging vice; she finds herself thoroughly unable to keep from arching her body (or trying to, anyhow) under Natasha’s constraining hands, squirming weakly and gasping out strangled moans as Natasha sucks and nips at the dainty skin of her neck, occasionally relenting to soothe the irritated skin with her tongue, the burn so delicious and poignant that Wanda knows without a doubt she’ll have a bruising mark there for days afterward. 

Wanda’s head spins when Natasha finally releases her only to continue kissing down past the graceful dip of her collarbone, the wet mark upon her pulse point aching under the sudden exposure to the cool air, her body shivering as Natasha lingers just above the most ample swell of her left breast, the familiar scrape of teeth closing around her skin… 

Natasha bites and sucks dutifully at the flush skin just as she’d done at Wanda’s neck, a girlish whine escaping her as the sensations pull at what precious little is left of her fragmented self-control, the damp arousal between her thighs growing increasingly uncomfortable with every touch, whether it’s one of pain or pleasure. 

Natasha continues this relentlessly for what feels like hours (but is probably more like a couple of minutes), wordlessly leaving harsh bites and decisive nibbles all up and down Wanda’s body, seemingly impervious to the moans of Wanda’s that only increase in volume and pitch with every new mark, every torturous touch of heated wetness placed deliberately upon flushed skin. 

At the end of it, Natasha swiftly pulls away (looking infuriatingly put-together, not a single hair out of place) to stand beside the bed and eye the rhythmic heave of Wanda’s breasts whilst she gasps for air, the blooming purplish bites appearing upon pearly-white skin, the angry redness surrounding every loving mark—she’s heedless of Wanda’s whines, her whimpers, her incoherent pleas for Natasha to please come back; instead, she simply watches and waits—though, for what, Wanda hasn’t the faintest clue. 

“Check in, милая.”

Wanda swallows, trying in vain to even out her labored breaths, her thighs aching with the need to clench together, the need to afford herself some semblance of _relief_ (no matter how small). “Green, Natalia.”

Something like a smile quirks at Natasha’s lips—and, this time, it’s not cruel; it’s not wolfish or terror-inducing. It’s more like _Wanda’s_ Natasha, the woman she’s come to know and love, slowly coming back to her in diminutive bits and pieces—healing.

It’s gone in a second, unfortunately, drowned in a resurgence of detached disinterest, but Wanda knows she hadn’t been deluding herself; she knows she saw a glimpse of humanity, a flash of Natasha’s return, a sign that _this_ (whatever they should call ‘this’) is working. 

“On your stomach,” Natasha demands then, and Wanda quickly does, even if the sensation of the embroidered sheets brushing against her terribly sore nipples and smarting bites is enough to rip a feeble whimper from her with every slight shift and squirm. “Good, моя любовь. Good,” Natasha praises soothingly, and Wanda shudders, her body melting docilely into the plush mattress despite the pain as the implications of Natasha’s loving words wash over her. 

Wanda bites her lip as she nuzzles her blushing cheek further into the fleecy pillowcase, hands coming up on either side to grip the slate-grey fabric in loose fists, body thrumming with mounting anticipation—she thinks she knows what’s coming next, and she’s unsure as to whether she feels scared, nervous, or excited about it.

Her body twitches when Natasha traces a tantalizing line from the tender dip between her shoulder blades, down to the dimples that grace the base of her spine, eventually pulling away entirely with a mumbled, “Gorgeous.”

Wanda’s glad she’s face-down then, glad she has the pillow beneath her in which to hide the heated blush worsening across her cheeks—she’s so lost in her own abashment, so overcome with an all-encompassing warmth that has her heart racing and the borderline uncomfortable arousal gathered between her legs skyrocketing, that she doesn’t have a _chance_ to prepare herself before—

_Crack!_ Natasha’s open hand comes down _hard_ upon Wanda’s right cheek—she fights the urge to squirm as the burning sets in, as the skin of her ass tingles painfully where Natasha struck it, the—

_Crack!_ Another, upon her left—the unalloyed force of it has Wanda gasping into the pillow. 

_Crack!_ Another, right atop the last. Wanda whimpers. 

_Crack! Crack!_ Two smacks in quick succession, both squarely upon the fleshiest part of her right cheek—Wanda grits her teeth, forcing herself not to flinch away.

_Crack!_ This time, upon the back of her left thigh, just beneath the swell of her butt. 

_Crack!_ Same place on the left, Wanda’s fists clenching tightly around the edges of the cloudy-grey pillowcase in her grip. 

_Crack!_ An— _Crack! Crack! Crack!_

A broken whimper escapes Wanda then, tears beginning to burn in her eyes, ass cheeks throbbing painfully under the onslaught—and still, she lets out a slow exhale into the sheets, forcing herself to arch into the blows as much as she can manage, offering her body willingly to Natasha’s steely resolve. 

Nine forceful smacks later, and she’s crying into the pillow, saltiness on her tongue, tears staining the pillowcase, body trembling with the effort she’s exerting into staying still, into being good for Natasha. 

“Check in, дорогая,” Natasha’s voice comes from above—gentler, this time. Comforting. 

Sniffling, Wanda wills her tears to abate, focusing on her breathing to calm herself, eyes fixed upon the standard metallic-grey walls to her left. “G-Green, Natalia.”

Natasha is silent as she comes into view, eventually crouching beside the bed to meet Wanda’s eyes, green-eyed gaze filled with sincerity. 

“Are you sure?” she questions simply, her tone unassuming and neutral, and Wanda knows she won’t be angry either way. 

“Yes, Natalia,” Wanda whispers out—and, it’s not a lie. 

A genuine smile quirks at Natasha’s full red lips, then, and she gently strokes at Wanda’s flushed cheek with a sure hand, something like adoration sparkling in those beautiful green eyes—Wanda melts beneath it, the soreness in her body fading away until all that’s left is Natasha, soothing her worries and assuaging her sorrows… until she’s _safe_.

A second later, and Natasha is gone, her footfalls silent as she circles the bed. 

“You’re almost done,” Natasha assures her from behind, a sacred promise in her words that has an undoubtedly contented feeling seeping throughout Wanda’s being even as she yearns for more. “Twelve strikes with the belt, and you’re done.”

Wanda shivers, hearing the soft sounds of Natasha (presumably) gathering the belt in her hands, reminding herself not to tense up as—

_Crack!_ Across the backs of her thighs. “Count.”

_Fuck, that hurt_.

“One,” Wanda recites, voice trembling. 

_Crack!_ Evenly across both her cheeks.

“T-Two.”

_Crack!_ Same spot. 

Wanda yelps, eyes beginning to water again with anguished tears. “Th-Three.”

_Crack!_

“F-Fou—"

_Crack!_

“Five!” Wanda manages to choke out, tears muffling her speech, cheeks burning under the blows—she’s not going to be able to sit for a couple days after this, at _least_.

_Crack!_

Wanda whines, the grey pillowcase fabric damp with her tears, the pain throbbing upon her raw ass seeming to double with every stroke. “S-Six.”

And, so on it goes—by the eleventh swat, Wanda’s tears are flowing uncontrollably, sobs poorly muffled by the stained pillowcase fabric beneath her, every muscle in her body tensed and trembling in a concerted effort to keep still. 

_Crack!_

Wanda nearly screams as the twelfth hits, the hardest one yet, birthing a thick stripe of sheer _agony_ across her cheeks, hips squirming against the sheets as the flaming soreness radiates throughout her weary body. 

“T-T-Twelve!” she sobs out hysterically before she can forget, barely registering as she feels the mattress dip beside her, a beautifully familiar face coming to lie just across from her own atop the sheets—she’s too lost to understand, too disoriented in a haze of something she can’t quite name, something that feels a lot like the strangest mixture of pain and pleasure and joy and _love_. 

Natasha doesn’t speak for a long moment, and for that, Wanda is grateful—instead, she just strokes gently at Wanda’s tear-stained and reddened cheek, humming a tune Wanda can’t for the life of her place, eyeing her with a sense of such affection, such _reverence_ , Wanda can’t help but shed a few more tears for how much she _feels_ in this moment, for how much _love_ she holds within her heart for the woman beside her, so much that she fears she might burst with the sheer magnitude of it. 

“'Tasha?”

Natasha smiles. “Hm?”

“Did I do okay?”

Natasha blinks, as if taken aback for a moment—then, she nods slowly before leaning forward to plant a lingering kiss upon Wanda’s sweat-damp forehead. 

“You were perfect,” she tells Wanda plainly, voice wrought with uninhibited _feeling_ , warm puffs of breath ghosting across the bridge of the young witch's nose, and Wanda feels herself blush under the approval even as she fights to hold Natasha’s green-eyed gaze with her own.

“I love you,” she mumbles, lids fluttering as she fights valiantly against sleep, the words falling from her lips before she can think to stop them, the truth of them swirling endlessly around her brain until she doesn’t think she could’ve contained them if she tried. 

Natasha hums, stroking delicately at the dampness upon Wanda’s cheek (a mixture of sweat and tears), eyes glossy with emotion. “I love you, too, красотка.”

✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳

A curious sensation tugs Wanda out of unconsciousness—a pleasurable ache as two firm lotion-slick hands knead deftly at the throbbing skin of her backside, the familiar minty-eucalyptus scent of Natasha’s favorite lotion permeating the air. 

“‘Tasha?” Wanda mumbles out, slowly returning back to reality—a glance at the digital clock resting upon the nightstand tells her she’s only been out for five minutes, or so; ten, at most. 

Natasha merely hums in response, her heated hands pulling away from Wanda’s reddened flesh as Wanda hears her padding near-soundlessly off to the bathroom, followed by the opening and closing of a cabinet door—then, she’s returning, and Wanda forces herself to roll onto her side, groaning with the effort as she watches Natasha approach the bed through bleary eyes, the redhead still dressed in that downright _sinful_ cotton white tee and black lacy panties. 

She can feel the arousal from earlier slowly making itself known (her exhaustion rapidly fading into blissful irrelevancy), returning with a vengeance until she’s biting her sore lip to keep from squirming, thighs clenched together in some desperate attempt to quench the flames of her desire—it doesn’t work (obviously), and as soon as Natasha slides herself onto the mattress, Wanda is on her, straddling her lap and taking her plump lips into a searing kiss, silently begging for reprieve with every uncontrolled buck of her hips against Natasha’s clothed torso. 

Natasha chuckles into their kiss, skimming her hands teasingly up and down Wanda’s bare sides, a knowing glint in her eye as Wanda mewls with unfettered _want_. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” she questions softly, voice dripping with feigned innocence, and Wanda fights the urge to snarl in frustration. 

“You know,” she whines instead, grinding down into Natasha’s lap and whining loudly when she doesn’t get the friction she so desperately craves. 

Natasha’s lips curl into a smirk, hands coming to rest upon Wanda’s hips, her grip tightening until Wanda’s frenzied movements are forced to still. “I think you might need to help me out,” she purrs, and Wanda bites back a whimper. 

“I need—I need you to fuck me, Tash,” she gasps out, cheeks flushed at the fiery lust building in Natasha’s gaze. “I need—I need you t-to make me cum."

Natasha’s eyes darken until Wanda can no longer see the natural green of her irises, pupils blown wide with desire. “All you had to do was ask, малышка."

A second later, before Wanda can think to come up with some biting remark to spite her, she’s dragging a single digit slowly through Wanda’s soaked folds, then idly resting at her clit to rub tight, _devastating_ circles around her overtly sensitive nub, lewd moans escaping Wanda’s hoarse throat, reverberating throughout her entire being—in an instant, she knows she’s close, _pitifully_ close, knows she’s already dangling upon the precipice of euphoric delight, knows that she’s been worked up so well and for far too long for this to last longer than a—

Wanda nearly screams as two fingers plunge into her depths without warning, her walls clenching tightly around the intruding digits that rub so _well_ against the spot within her that never fails to make her come undone, Natasha’s thumb circling lazily around her slippery clit, the woman murmuring worshipful praise against her neck, telling her how gorgeous she looks right now, how much Natasha loves the feeling of her clenching around her fingers, how _good_ Wanda's been for her, taking everything so well and so—

She comes with a scream, her vision whiting out with the momentousness of _sensation_ assaulting her senses, body writhing uncontrollably upon Natasha’s fingers, shockwaves of pleasure flipping her inside out with every slight graze against her throbbing clit—she doesn’t know how long she stays there, suspended amongst exhilarating grandeur, caught between soul-wrenching pleasure and something Wanda’s sure is evangelical heaven, shudders wracking her body as Natasha’s clever fingers work her gradually through it, stroking and fucking and working her _just right_ until she’s sure she’s going to pass out, sure she’s going to lose the plot entirely if it goes on for any longer. 

It’s as if Natasha senses it, almost—her thrusts slow, her movements still; all that’s left is them, entwined so profoundly with one another, sweat beading Wanda’s temples even as Natasha presses the most tender of kisses down her neck, whispering beautiful things against her flushed skin that render her nearly overcome with adoration, with affection, with _love_. 

Wanda whimpers when Natasha removes her fingers entirely, soaking wet digits brushing gently against her hypersensitive clit—then, she’s taking them in her mouth, full kiss-swollen lips pursed tightly around the fingers that glisten with Wanda’s arousal, a sound of suppressed contentment escaping her as she tastes Wanda’s sweetness on her tongue, green eyes locked intensely upon blue. 

“I love you, Natasha,” Wanda whispers again, just because she can, tickling Natasha’s nose with her own as the redhead releases her own fingers from her mouth, a smile curving across her lips. 

“I love you, too, Wanda.”

✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳ ✳

**Author's Note:**

> да | _da_ | yes  
> милая | _milaya_ | dear; sweet (term of endearment)  
> малышка | _malyshka_ | baby (term of endearment)  
> дорогая | _dorogaya_ | darling  
> моя любовь | _moya lyubov_ | my love  
> красотка | _krasotka_ | beautiful (term of endearment)
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


End file.
